Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [126]
For distraction she turned to the nearest headstone.
From earth my body first arose,
But here to earth again it goes,
I never desire to have it more
To plague me as it did before.
She thought of her body: the rubbery dampness of it. How it served her. How it wearied her.
'Very true, that one,' said Mrs. Jones enjoyably. 'Read me some more; my eyes are tired this morning.'
Mary recited the epitaphs of various Lucases, Prossers, Lloyds, and Adamses. 'In Memory of his Wife who Bore Him 2 Sons and 1 Daughter and Died in Childbed June 1713 Aged 38.'
Mrs. Jones gave a little shiver. 'Jessie Adams, that was; she was a friend of my grandma's.'
Mary moved on to the next, which was still bare of moss. 'Sacred to the memory of Grandison Jones—' Her voice dried up all at once.
'—son of Thomas Jones, of Monmouth, and his wife Jane.' The older woman's tone was gentle.
The girl couldn't think what to say.
'Now Delmont, our third,' said Mrs. Jones, pointing to the name farther down the headstone, 'I got that name out of a story by Mrs. Haywood. Even if she was a bit of a hussy!'
Mary counted the names. It was a small square, lightly scored with letters; she tried to guess its cost.
'Maybe Thomas would be better off with a young girl who could give him half a dozen boys,' Mrs. Jones went on, as if remarking on the weather.
Mary stared at her.
'But who could suit him or know his ways as I do? Besides,' murmured Mrs. Jones, moving on to the next grave, 'I've not quite given up yet.'
Something in her tone alerted the girl. Could it be? Surely not. A tiny laugh in the mistress's breath, as she smoothed her plain black bodice over her stomach.
'You're not—'
'Did I say so?' asked Mrs. Jones innocently.
Mary gave her a wide grin. 'I thought—' Then she stopped herself before the insult slipped out.
'You thought I was too old. Yes,' said Mrs. Jones meditatively, 'I was afraid I might be.'
They walked on a little way. Mary stooped to read an epitaph so old its letters were almost worn away.
We all must die, there is no doubt;
Your glass is running—mine is out.
Mrs. Jones slid her arm into Mary's as they moved on towards the river. 'I've not told Thomas, mind,' she murmured.
'Why?' asked Mary. At the thought that she was the first to know, she felt delight like a chip of sugar in her mouth
'Oh, I mustn't raise his hopes yet. I used to tell him every time I had the least expectation, but then he was sorely disappointed when it came to grief. And he was so very broken in his spirit when Grandison was taken last year. Mind you, it comes to all of us, rich or poor,' Mrs. Jones added, looking back at Monnow House, the highest in the line of creamy buildings. 'Madam in there's been brought to bed ten times, and not a one living.'
Mary tried to imagine it. Something like Ma Slattery's cellar, but ten times over; all your ambitions amounting to blood in a pail.
As they neared the river, she was startled by a glimpse of its blue. Though there was no visible sun, the Monnow shone like a broken sword cutting its way through the countryside. It held a slice of sky, that was what it was; Mary looked up and saw the bright blue, tucked between the clouds. At the end of the lane the cottages ran out and there was only muddy meadow. She and Mrs. Jones picked their way carefully, so as not to ruin their shoes.
The earth crumbled softly at the river edge, fraying into the water. Mary watched the ripples advancing. Then she pointed in puzzlement. 'I thought it ran the other way, down to Chepstow?'
'Oh, it does,' said Mrs. Jones placidly. 'Look closer.'
Mary bent over the water and saw how she'd been tricked. The ripples were only on the surface, carved by the breeze.
'If you watch that twig, and those leaves coming down to us,' said Mrs. Jones, 'you'll see its true path, hidden under the ripples.'
The bell told them it was noon already. They turned to hurry back to Monnow House.
Mr. Jones was